Voluntary Weakness
by fifty-thousand-bees
Summary: In which Raskolnikov cannot hold his liquor and Razumikhin is a little shit (loosely based on patinthehat's AU on AO3)


Rodya cannot hold his liquor. It's an absolute fact, and while he doesn't drink often, those rare occasions leave him completely shitfaced.

This particular time, Rodya had his face smushed against Dmitri's shoulder. His flushed cheek had pushed one of his eyes into a squint, and the black glitter of the other one was the only sign that he was still awake.

"You should come," Dmitri had said that morning, "You never come to parties." And, when Rodion had begrudgingly agreed, "It'll be fun."

Fast forward several hours and several alcoholic drinks and Rodya, back in their shared dorm, muttered "I think I might be drunk" against Dima's shoulder before kissing him messily on the cheek.

Dmitri laughed, not sure whether the kiss had been intentionally placed or if Rodya had simply missed his mouth. Rodya's infuriating walls only came down when he was incapacitated somehow, and he only initiated affection under the same circumstances. He took Rodya's chin in his hand and returned the favor.

"Hey," Rodya protested, trying to turn his face and meet Dima's mouth with his own, "Stop that."

"Stop what?" Dima grinned, kissing him on the nose.

"That," Rodya said, and gripped Dmitri's face to bring their mouths together, "You dick."

Dima pulled him closer, both hands tangled in Rodion's oversized sweatshirt. Rodya pulled away eventually, dazed.

"Whoa," He said, flushed with more than drunkenness. Dima kissed him just under his jawline. "Whoa," He said again, distractedly, backed against the arm of the grimy couch. Dmitri had worked his way down to his collarbone, then broke contact to kiss him on the nose again.

"Hey, I told you to stop that," Rodya said without malice. Dima brushed a thumb fondly across Rodya's cheekbone.

"Nah," He said. He kissed the very corner of his mouth, leaning back when Rodya turned his head in an attempt to catch his lips. "You should go to bed soon."

"I don't want to," Rodya shot back with characteristic petulance, "I'm not _that_ drunk."

"You sure?"

"I'm pretty sure," Rodya said, pulling his sweatshirt over his head, "Quite sure, actually."

"Whatever you say, bro," Dmitri said, both hands under Rodya's shirt. He kissed his jaw, felt the scratch of what little stubble Rodya had, the only hint of his poor shaving habits. He grinned- Rodya's inability to grow a beard was somehow hilariously endearing.

"Ow," Rodya said in response to Dmitri's own (considerably thicker) stubble.

"Sorry, want me to stop?"

"No," Rodya said, breath hitching. He shoved Dima back to strip off his shirt. Dima followed suit.

"Okay?" Dima asked, mouth against Rodya's stomach.

"Yeah."

"Still okay?" With teeth against his hip.

"Y-yeah"

One hand skirting the hem of his jeans, one in his hair, "Are you-"

"For the love of god, Dima, if you ask me one more time I'll punch you."

"Kinky," Dima replied, quirking an eyebrow. Rodya flicked him on the forehead and Dmitri kissed him hard on the lips before he could retort. He slid his hand lower, pressing through Rodya's jeans. Rodya shuddered.

"Are you-"

"Yes, I'm fine," Rodya breathed, "I'm fine." His eyes were squinted shut, flush high in his cheeks.

"Look," Dima said, easing the fly open, "You're kind of tipsy. So am I, honestly. You're sure? Have you even done any of this before?"

Rodya paused, opened one of his eyes.

"Um."

"You haven't?" Dima said, pulling back, "And you didn't mention that before?"

"Listen, I thought I was sex-repulsed for most of my life," Rodion replied frustratedly, "And I'm pretty sure I'm the one who's supposed to overthink everything. Come on."

Dmitri resumed the pressure, and Rodya's breath stuttered against his neck. He traced the expanse between his hipbones, eliciting a shiver, and pulled the jeans to Rodya's knees.

"Tell me if you want me to stop," He breathed, and Rodya, eyes shut tight, shook his head no.

He kissed him again by his hipbone, then just below the hem of his boxers, his thigh, his stomach.

"Is it your goal to torment me?" Rodya hissed.

"Maybe," Dima replied before pulling away the final layer of fabric.

He touched him gently, let Rodya shiver and move against him in search of friction. Rodya squirmed, too proud to seek it out. Dima finally, blessedly, took pity on him.

"You," Rodya gasped, "Are insufferable."

Dima patted his jean pockets, eventually, and pulled out a small, obnoxiously colored bottle.

"Has that been in your pocket all night?" Rodya asked, lids at half mast.

"Gotta be prepared, man," He replied.

"Are you-"

"Just fingers," Dima broke in, "Don't hurt yourself."

Rodya huffed, but stopped with the second digit. He clenched his jaw, determined not to make a fool of himself, and tried to quiet his breathing. He tried to construct a coherent sentence and gave up.

"Please," He whispered, not entirely sure what he was asking for.

Dima grinned, pushed Rodya's mess of hair out of his eyes, and obliged. Rodya's head swam, the innocent gesture contrasted against the ministrations of the other hand almost too much.

Dima kissed him once, hard, on the mouth, and Rodya hid his embarrassing noise between their lips before letting his weight fall back.

"That was quick," Dmitri said, smiling smugly.

"You're terrible," Rodya murmured back, "Go fuck yourself."

"Actually, I'm going to do exactly that," Dima replied, "You're going to bed."

"No," Rodya said, pushing himself upright, "No, I won't take favors like a passive brat."

"Are you sure?" Dima asked, smiling.

"Shut up."


End file.
